The man was lost. His destination on the tip of his tongue kept slipping away. The right words failing to come to mind. The ones that did made little sense. The driver shooed him onto the bus. He had a schedule to keep, and the man’s rambling didn’t seem to have an end.
The man wore a thin hooded jacket with no hat or gloves. His fingers were stained from cigarettes. His worn sneakers matched his tired, off-kilter walk. When he boarded the bus, a winter gust came in behind him. It was cold that night.
He moved to take a seat in one of the many single spots next to a solitary commuter. A quiet game of Russian roulette.
He broke that silent agreement between passengers. Pulling the bus out of the end of day daydreams on travels home.
The man was kind, I think, and expressive. But I wouldn’t say I placed much trust in him. He was scared, confused, and erratic. Holding a calm tone for no more than a minute before losing himself in a contorted face of tears and snot and spit. It seemed the man’s thoughts could not exist in his head. They kept overflowing and spilling out onto the floor. An honest mess that everyone was witness to, but no one wanted to clean up.
The atmosphere became tense as he looked for someone to help him. No one knew where the lost man needed to go, or they pretended not to. Everyone was on edge. The unease on the bus made my stomach tight. I stood up to see if I could tell him where his stop was. Maybe keep his attention in one spot for a while until I alighted.
We ended up talking. I ended up listening.
He had lost much. From what I understood of the coherent parts of the conversation. He had lost his family. He had belonged to a group whose name I couldn’t pronounce, but he was the last one left alive. He had gone to jail for a time. He said what a horrid place it was. He slurred his words.
When he finally told me his destination, my heart sunk. He looked relieved when I said I knew where he wanted to go. He would get off at my stop.
His hands were rough. Dirt and tar made a home in the nooks of his fingernails and the creases of his palms. He held out his hand to shake in what felt a pleading way. I took it. He held on. When he riled himself up and began to cry, he gripped my hand tighter. Like he was grasping a lifeline out on a stormy sea. He didn’t want to drown.
The man began talking in loops. His train of thought building speed in a terrible circle going nowhere. I was afraid he would derail if I didn’t apply some kind of brake. He talked of God and Jesus and whether those around him believed in the bible. I lied and said I did. I wanted to calm him down. He told me a bible verse that brought him strength and would save me when the end came. He said that I was a good person. I returned the compliment mechanically. I smiled as I did. I wanted to calm him down. I wasn’t a good person. I wanted to calm him down. I was afraid he might stumble into anger. And he was already in so much pain.
So I squeezed his hand lightly in reassurance. His sadness was a bare part of him. As was every other rolling emotion. So easily felt. It was in his bones. His fingers. My fingers. My bones. Tiring. There was no boundary. There was no letting go.
He still looked lost when we got off at our stop twenty minutes later. Like he didn’t know where to head from there. As though he hadn’t reached his goal, but instead found a new problem. For another ten minutes he continued talking. The deep cold seemed to help him think more clearly. He told me a disjointed story of his past. He again told me not to forget the bible verse. I had written it on my hand to show him I would remember. His gift to me.
The cold seeped through my mittens and into my fingers. His bare hands he hid in the pockets of his jeans. He had his hood down and left his ears exposed. His ears were turning red. I thought to give him my mittens but couldn’t bring myself to do so.
As we said goodbye, he asked if he could give me a hug. I said yes. After we embraced, he told me he loved me. I felt he meant it truly and wholesomely. Like a brother to a brother. I said I loved him too. I meant it as much as I could. I wanted to mean it like he did. But I fell short.
I was still wary of him. Though I could no longer say he was a stranger.
When I got home, I washed my hands well. The dirt from his palms and the bible verse penned on my skin rinsed off in the soap and water.
That was years ago. And I have forgotten that verse now. The words that gave him strength and that he hoped would give me strength too.
Thinking back, I realize that he probably gave me everything he had to give that night. I regret I didn’t appreciate it at the time. That I didn’t give more in return. That I couldn’t see him for how he saw me.
I hope he’s okay. Wherever he is.